


Signifier, Signified

by Jane_Lu



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alive Cole Anderson, Alternate Universe, Character Study, Fluff, M/M, Slice of Life, Workplace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-13
Updated: 2020-09-13
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:01:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26451520
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jane_Lu/pseuds/Jane_Lu
Summary: Connor has worked at a consultant firm in Seattle for years, both wanting to do something different and loathing to see things change. Even when he finds himself watching a middle-aged man being dragged along by a St. Bernard every lunch hour, who for some reason he couldn't stop observing, he knows that nothing would come of it.He never expected that they would notice so much about each other, perhaps much more than was normal.
Relationships: Hank Anderson/Connor
Comments: 13
Kudos: 61





	Signifier, Signified

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LankaKitten](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LankaKitten/gifts).



The presentation went into one ear and came out the other. Try as he might, he couldn’t unslurr the words into something understandable.

Connor looked past the screen of his laptop and out the window. The gray overcast sky was a usual sight against the nondescript office buildings of South Lake Union. At 36 floors up, he could see much of the city sprawled along the river. The Great Wheel rose out of the forest of steel like a circlet of spines. Traffic at 11:42AM was beginning to fill the streets. He watched as a row of cars stopped at an intersection, with a couple of cyclists weaving their way through on the side.

“—projected goals for next year, a client for one of the big three. We can think about raising consulting fees if so—”

Connor glanced briefly at the screen. He had been responsible for developing several of them, but now the words looked unfamiliar, as if someone else had written them without his knowing. It felt strange that he would be capable of determining a company’s future when he himself had no idea what he’d do with himself.

“—Connor has worked on an assignment with Kiveo for the past week. Tell us about the offer you just received.”

“Thank you, Amanda.” He put on his professional veneer with uncanny ease and nodded at his supervisor. Connor then launched into a complete report on his recent assignment. Part of him seemed to watch himself from the distance in bewilderment. Was he really the same person who spoke with smooth eloquence, who took charge of the meeting at a blink, who pretended that he knew what he was talking about? Connor wanted to recoil from Amanda’s approving nod, from the searching glances from the others.

He finished his spiel and swept out of the room as everyone began to stand, through the rows of standing desks and lowered heads and snatches of conversation. Inertia’s large open office chilled him with its familiarity. Nine years of work given to the firm, first as an associate consultant, then a senior consultant, and now a project manager. It seemed like forever ago when he first walked into this space, knees weak with relief that his job hunt had finally yielded this one offer.

Connor took the elevator down to the lobby. The air outside was crisp, with the slightest tang of saltiness. He immediately felt refreshed as he inhaled. As always, the flow of the lunchtime crowd eased him into its headlong motion. He fell into step behind a group of suited men and women chattering excitedly. It was easy to lose himself in the presence of others, especially when no one knew him and he knew no one.

He bought a gyro sandwich and a drink at the Greek-style food stand around the corner of the office building. Then he made his way back inside through the labyrinth of lobbies and hallways, until he came to a small half-open clearing with a few trees set into concrete enclosures and a flat fountain wall murmuring off to one side. There were few people in this area. Connor seated himself at one of the high window seats and dug into his meal. From his angle he could see anyone walking by in the opposite hallway, as well as those who crossed the clearing.

A young man with close-cropped hair stumbled and dropped his phone with a mild exclamation. A large group wearing visitor badges crossed the clearing, their loud shouts echoing around the atrium. A portly woman in a uniform ambled past with two large shoulder bags. Someone was talking weekend plans over the phone a few seats away from Connor, something about a Mount Rainier hike with college friends, followed by a concert at Benaroya Hall.

He closed his eyes and listened. Connor knew what he would be doing this weekend, a routine of grocery shopping, meal prepping, reading and walks around the neighborhood. It hadn’t really changed for the past nine years, as much as he tried to. Somehow he always ended up tired and longing for a nice quiet day. Then restlessness would set in again as he struggled to find something to look forward to. The irony of the two desires was not lost on him.

Connor had briefly entertained the idea of quitting his job and moving to a new city, if only to see what would happen. Life almost seemed too tranquil now. He had a steady income, his family was doing well on their own, he was single (and he had long given up on the days of desperate social engagements of finding a partner), and had few friends.

...No, that was the last thing he wanted. He couldn’t do it, starting anew in a strange place and having to build everything from ground up. It was much easier to think of what he was doing now. For the next ten years he would continue to arrive at the office at 8am sharp, work, clock at noon and eat lunch in this atrium and people watch, work some more, leave at 5 and spend the rest of the evening reading again and dozing off.

A bark cut through the hubhub. Connor blinked, the unexpected sound snapping him out of his thoughts. There was a man struggling to hang onto a giant St. Bernard as he came into the atrium. The dog strained against its leash, barking excitedly at something behind a corner. The man swore, before finally reigning in the St. Bernard by pulling a bone haphazardly from his bag. It clattered to the concrete ground. The man sat down heavily onto a nearby bench as the dog began chewing with gusto.

Connor took a few minutes to appreciate the St. Bernard. The dog was huge, and was definitely taller than him if he sat next to it. Its fur glowed with health. He would not refuse an offer to run his hands over the dog’s sides and shower it with affectionate praise. It was clear that the St. Bernard’s owner took good care of his companion.

For some reason Connor found himself observing this man for the rest of his lunch break. There was a badge clipped to his belt, but it was too far for Connor to read. He had a harassed energy to him that stood in awry contrast to his dog. His chin-length gray hair could use a comb, his beard a trim and his button-up shirt an iron. There were splatters on one sleeve of his dark blue windbreaker, and Connor was positive that his socks were mismatched. All tension seemed to leave his frame as he heaved a sigh and began eating a sandwich he retrieved from his bag.

His features were clearly defined, with a forehead carved in deep lines and set brows. His eyes were a brilliant blue, almost startling so, with a sharp perceptive air. They narrowed as the man studied his surroundings.

Their eyes met.

Connor looked away as quickly as he could, his face burning from being caught staring. He finished the rest of his own meal and pretended that he was checking something on his phone. When he sneaked a peak at the man again, he was standing in front of the waste bins, hovering between the compostables and recyclables. The man shrugged and tossed everything into the former.

Connor stifled a laugh. He would bet that the man was relatively new to the city. One of those days the cleaner was going to catch him and give him a lecture about compostable waste. And eventually the man would find himself with way too many water bottles and starting a hobby in compost pile cultivation.

He caught himself with a burst of bewilderment. He was already becoming too invested in the hypothetical life of this stranger that he would likely never see again. Connor cleaned up after his meal and left the atrium swiftly, dismissing all forms of fruitless thought. He really ought to stop indulging in them these days, for all the good it did him.

* * *

“No, this site map needs to detail lateral relationships. You have the categories down, but siloed content restricts the user from accessing more than they can—”

“C’mon, Connor. It’s half past twelve already. Can we call it a break and come back to agonize over this later?” Markus groaned and rubbed his temples.

“Your specified deadline is this week,” Connor tapped at his tablet, “I want the redesign to be successful as much as you do.”

“Doesn’t mean that I’m willing to give all my time to it. I’m heading out for lunch.”

He didn’t miss his client’s intended oversight in inviting him. They’ve begun work on the redesign two weeks ago, and Markus was becoming more exasperated by the project the longer it went on. Connor watched the door swing shut after the other, before heaving a sigh and gathering up the papers. There was little he could do now other than to take a break as well.

Connor made his way down to the atrium again, this time with a packed lunch of his own. For some reason his pace quickened as he approached his usual window seat, as if he were expecting something to happen. The bewilderment came back again with full force when he saw the man from yesterday at one of the tree benches.

This time Connor was careful to disguise his watching by pretending to scroll through his phone. It was definitely the same man. This time he wore a large brown coat along with the gaudiest shirt Connor had seen on another human (orange and blue stripes). The dog sat at his feet, slurping away at a bowl of water. The harassed look was still there in his wrinkled shirt, tired eyes and untrimmed beard.

A likely newcomer to Seattle, bringing his dog to work as was permitted with many companies. Connor wondered what brought on the disheveled appearance. Was he the type to wake up late every morning and engage in the mad dash to get to work on time? It doesn’t seem like it, not with the methodical way he unclipped the St. Bernard’s leash and opened a can of food for it. Does he have a large family he has to do morning routines for? And why was he here at all? Where did he come from? Connor might be able decipher that if he heard the man speak. He wondered if he had traveled far. Seattle certainly had the appeal to draw job seekers from all over the country with its rapid industry growth. The man might have driven here all the way from the East Coast, his large St. Bernard panting excitedly at the back and a probable family arguing whether they should stop at the next rest station.

Connor found himself caught up in a wave of lost bearings. What was he doing, continuing to think about what might be for a stranger? There was no purpose in this. Even the work that he was beginning to find unvaried had more meaning and impact. Where did he see himself going with this? What did he really want?

The man was now speaking on his phone, his blue eyes narrowed with concentration. He stood up suddenly, crammed the dog food back into his bag and clipped the leash back on. An exasperated look entered his features as he left the atrium in a rush. Something fluttered to the ground from his coat.

Perhaps a part of Connor knew what he wanted better than his ability to put it into words. His legs seemed to move on their own, and he bent to pick up the man’s misplaced work badge.

* * *

His name was Henry Anderson. He was employed by Vivatex Engineering at the opposite building on the 12th floor. The badge looked new with barely any scratch marks, which strongly confirmed his status as a newcomer. 

Somehow the influx of new knowledge was enough to send Connor into a state of puzzlement as he pondered about what he learned. He was back at his usual seat overlooking the atrium, nursing a hot mug of coffee and listening idly to the noise around him. Something was clicking against the stone tiles and getting closer by the second. It suddenly devolved into frantic scrabbling, followed by a muffled curse and a sharp command to sit.

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

Connor snapped his head up at the direct question. The abrupt reality of someone addressing him in his time alone left him reeling for words for a couple of seconds. It didn’t help when he realized who had spoken to him.

It was the man, along with his ever-present St. Bernard who now lay on the floor with its tongue out. Today the man was dressed in a green bomber jacket and jeans that were fraying at the edges. His sharp blue eyes were currently regarding Connor with keen intent.

“I-I didn’t leave my name with reception.” Connor stammered, focusing on the bathroom sign behind the other’s head.

“I had a hunch.”

His voice was deep with a rough edge to his intonation. He pronounced his words with an accent that was definitely not characteristic of the West Coast.

“I hadn’t wanted to be found,” Connor gave a strained laugh, “I did what I thought was right without expecting a personal thanks. Do you make a habit of approaching strangers on a hunch, Mr. Anderson?”

The other’s gaze narrowed, “You do an uncanny job at channeling Agent Smith. Call me Hank.”

The awkward silence between them was sudden. Connor caught the movie reference somewhat too late and spent way too long trying to fumble for his next words. Hank’s tone was gruff, and he seemed to have realized it too as he lowered his gaze and tapped a foot restlessly.

“Umm… I’m Connor, project manager at Inertia,” Connor clutched at his mug tighter, “I’m sorry for assuming-”

Hank waved dismissively, “I always go by Hank to my... uh, coworkers and friends. Catches me by surprise when someone chooses otherwise. Look, thanks for returning my pass. I really didn’t want to pay the replacement fee. Least I can do is thank you in person.”

“You’re welcome… I…”

Connor trailed off as the St. Bernard stood up and began to circle around Hank, panting rapidly at something in the atrium. He could sense the end of their exchange approaching rapidly, and for some reason he found himself grasping at any means to prolong the moment. The shock of his sudden desperation seemed to snap him awake more than before.

“Th-That’s a nice dog you have there.” Connor blurted.

“Uh… thanks. His name is Sumo,” Hank reeled in the St. Bernard with some difficulty and bent to ruffle his ears, “Company has a dog allowance and I don’t wanna spend money to hire a dog sitter. Works out for both of us.”

“How old is he?”

“Around 7… or maybe 8? Honestly I’m not completely sure. He still has the energy of a puppy, and I’m not getting any younger to put up with that amount of fucking enthusiasm.”

“It looks like you take good care of Sumo,” Connor set his coffee down and stood, “Can… Can I touch him? I’ve never interacted with a dog of his size before.”

“Knock yourself out.”

He tentatively knelt beside Sumo, who definitely came up to his shoulder in height. The dog looked at Connor with expectant eyes when he wound his fingers into soft fur. Then suddenly, in a blur of white and brown, Connor was on his back and wheezing from what felt like a sack of bricks colliding into him. Something wet and rough dragged across his cheek excitedly.

“Ooof, what-” Connor coughed, reaching up to push, “Sumo, there’s no need to be so enthusiastic. I have no treats on me, unless you’ve developed a liking for coffee!”

As he tried to maneuver the large dog to one side, he caught a glimpse of Hank, whose stern features had softened to a subdued smile.

“Congrats, Connor. You’ve joined the ranks of Sumo’s chew toy collection. Grateful to share the honor.”

“I’m afraid I won’t be around as much as you would like, Sumo. Be a good boy, alright?” Connor scratched the sides of the St. Bernard’s head gently and managed to sit up again.

He was briefly aware that they made a strange image in the hallway as people glanced at them with curious looks. But he couldn’t bring himself to mind. Sumo nudged his chest hard enough to nearly knock him over again and Connor gave a small laugh. The moment seemed to grow in clarity and in scope. He looked at Hank again, who now looked pointedly away to the side with his fingers clenched around the leash.

“Look, I need to head back. Got a meeting in ten minutes.” His voice took on its brusque tone again, “See you around.”

And Hank was gone, he and his dog rounding out of sight around a corner as Sumo gave one last departing bark. Connor stood and went back to his coffee, which had long since gone cool. He should be heading back to work as well, though he was having trouble collecting his thoughts. He hadn’t had the opportunity to inquire how their conversation had happened in the first place. Hank had known his role in returning the badge. _He had known._

Connor shivered. Anxiousness gnawed at him and he had to stop speculating the implications. However as he sat down at his desk and looked out to the city again, and to the brown unassuming building across from his, the image of Hank’s wry smile refused to leave his memory. 

* * *

He went for it the next day.

Connor sat down on the other end of the bench a couple feet from the now-familiar figures of Hank and Sumo, placing his coffee beside him and planning to ease his way into notice. However, the large St. Bernard was already up and bounding over. Connor almost went toppling into the dirt as Sumo launched his front paws onto his chest.

“Alright, what’s it this time-” Hank’s eyes widened upon turning around, “Oh, it’s you.”

Connor managed to placate the dog with hearty ear scratches, “I had hoped to greet you less intrusively.”

“Ha, good luck with that around my oversized dog.”

“How does he stay cooped up in your office all day?”

“He doesn’t,” Hank scoffed, “That’s why I come down here. Damn lunch break hours aren’t long enough for me to take him on a proper walk. Chris, Tina and the others love to have Sumo around but don’t lend a fucking hand to speak to management.”

“Is that why you’re dressed more properly today?”

Hank was wearing a brown single-breasted overcoat with a dark blue shirt underneath buttoned all the way up. Other than a crooked collar and another stain on the inside of a sleeve, he looked ready to present at a boardroom meeting. But Hank averted his eyes and mumbled something about the laundry.

“... What is the nature of your work?” Connor diverted the topic in a rush.

“Civil engineer at Vivatex. I help design roads and bridges. Transferred in from Detroit, Michigan.”

“Oh? You’re a long way from home. Do you have any particular reason for choosing Seattle?”

“......” Hank’s jaw worked as he looked at the ground, “Seemed like a good option.”

It was clear that he wasn’t willing to disclose more than that. Connor hurriedly backpedaled, ready to divert the topic to something safer, but Hank beat him to it.

“How about you? What d’you do? You mentioned project management. That’s one of the vaguest job titles I’ve ever heard of. Inertia’s company website also does a half-assed job of explaining things.”

“Oh, uh…” Connor fumbled, caught off guard that Hank had done some research, “I merely oversee our current projects and make sure the consultants are on the right track. My company does consulting work in information architecture, ontologies and taxonomies, so my expertise is needed.”

Hank turned his head to stare at him, “I literally have no idea what just came out of your mouth.”

This was familiar territory. Connor was accustomed to pitching his line of work to people who had no idea what it was. He launched into a spiel about the need for information to be organized for findability and accessibility, that he was primarily responsible for what goes on behind an interface and before a database. Connor had found the profession after a brief stint in the library sciences and had not expected to find himself designing systems of words and relationships. That was where the taxonomy came in. It was remarkably hard to come up with the appropriate terms to name things, especially when different people had different conceptions of a thing. With English, it was especially impossible to have a 1:1 ratio between word and meaning. He had spent entire afternoons arguing with clients over definitions and categories—

“Better that than arguing over fucking measurements and material composition,” Hank groaned, “I know ya’ll want to save money, but a bridge’s gotta hold.”

“Clients like to argue for fewer terms as well to save costs, but I always try to back myself up with user research. Users don’t care about official definitions. The key is the role of language and the way they associate the sign with the signified.”

“And the hell is that?”

“Oh, that’s post-structuralist semiotics as presented by Michel Foucault, a French philosopher. It’s quite interesting how a postmodern thinker who proposes that…” Connor suddenly caught himself before he could launch into another series of explanations, “I’m sorry, Hank. I’m boring you, am I?”

“... No, no. Though I gotta admit that I’m still trying to wrap my mind around the topic.”

“I’m truly sorry. I… don’t usually ramble.” Connor said flusteredly. 

Hank fiddled with Sumo’s leash before regarding him with a steady look, “Nice change of pace though. I’m usually surrounded by STEM graduates who can’t talk outside of equations and numbers. Seattle seems to be filled to the brim with the type.”

“I heard the city culture takes some getting used to, especially if you came from the Midwest. For example, the people here can have a tendency to be exceedingly polite, but do not try to know you on a deeper level. It’s called the Seattle Freeze.”

“That has a fucking name?”

“Because it has an active effect in making it difficult to make friends or significant others. People here like to spend time in cliques.”

“Thanks for the heads up,” Hank ran a hand through his hair and sighed, “But I guess I kinda got what I came for.”

Connor sensed a reveal from the other, but he was afraid to push again. The silence came back. For some reason it felt a lot more comfortable, though he couldn’t pinpoint where the change occurred. Connor gave Sumo another scratch behind the ears and smiled when the St. Bernard nosed his leg and thumped his tail.

“You from Seattle?” Hank asked.

“Yes, for most of my life. I’ve briefly lived in San Francisco for a year, though that wasn’t—”

“But you came back. Why?”

Connor turned to face the other with surprise at the unusually probing question, “Why? Why would you want to know? I…”

He trailed off as he tried to understand how to put his thoughts into words. It felt strange to be talking about something on this level of personal detail, to the extent that he never really thought about it.

Connor _had_ spent a year at San Francisco, with an intention to experience the whole “young working professional at the Bay Area” fad. It was a time where he almost completely reinvented his routines. Admittedly the high living expenses gave him something to stress over. But in the end the sense that he was _away_ wouldn’t stop bothering him. Every time he returned to his small apartment,he couldn’t seem to claim it as his own living space.

“I suppose… I’m not entirely sure. When you’ve lived somewhere for more than half of your life, it’s not so easy to cut ties. Even when the city has changed while you were gone, there is still something about it that you can’t remove yourself from, perhaps not even when you replace every building and road.”

Hank produced a noncommittal hum, his eyes again looking in the distance, and didn’t reply. At first Connor berated himself internally for saying something absurd. But Hank’s expression remained pensive, even when Sumo circled around him and laid his head into his lap.

“Did I bring Detroit with me?” He said softly, “Packed up everything I owned, my dog, my son, and somehow ended up not leaving it behind?”

“Son? So you do have children.”

“‘So you do have— That’s a weird way to phrase the question, Connor.”

“Um…!” Connor stood, knowing that he accidentally revealed that he had been paying more attention to Hank than was usual, “Yes, that’s what I meant! You have a son?”

“Yeah. His name’s Cole, currently in second grade. You’d probably see him this week on President’s Day—”

“It’ll be a pleasure. I do have to head back now. Until next time.” Connor gathered up his mug and lunchbox, dipped his head at the other and left the atrium in long strides.

He didn’t look back to see Hank’s reaction at his abrupt departure. His breath was coming hard. The moment of breakthrough was over. He had done enough for the rest of the day in testing the boundaries of his comfort zone. It didn’t help that he was beginning to realize for sure that for some strange reason, the two of them were noticing way too many details about each other.

* * *

_Did I bring Detroit with me?_

Connor recognized the clear signs of wanting to leave the past behind.

Hank’s question lingered in his mind. It was as if someone else asking it had unlocked a block Connor didn’t know was there. Why had he returned to Seattle? What had he wanted when he left, and what was he looking forward to when he accepted the position at Inertia?

And would the answer lead to what he was searching for all this time, despite not knowing what it was?

He chose a different place to sit this time, at a small alcove beside the atrium that still offered a clear view of it. There were two men there as well, one typing away on a laptop with headphones on, and the other scrolling on their phone. Connor sank into one of the couches and unpacked a container of mushroom ragu. Hank was nowhere in sight.

In a way he was a little relieved. Work had barely left him any time for himself. He wasn’t sure if he could continue to keep… _whatever_ it was that was going on between them. Two strangers who had no reason to encounter each other. A renewed sense of wanting to know where he could go from here, to what could be five years, one year, one month, one day from now.

Connor closed his eyes and listened. The usual wash of activity around him felt muted. He couldn’t pick out one source of sound from the other. Even when the man on the phone suddenly began talking about conference arrangements, the words left no impact on him. Connor’s thoughts instead drifted to himself.

He thought about the decision to leave. How long did it take to make the jump? Was there a jump at all? Where did leaving end and arriving begin?

_But you came back. Why?_

To look forward to something? To return to familiarity, as certain as his daily commute from Capitol Hill to South Lake Union was? Where did Hank come into this at all, him a newcomer who took the leap and Connor who had long since turned back from it?

When he was younger, Connor remembered being in his parents’ car driving past his old elementary school and bewildering them when he asked where the crematorium was. “There has never been such a thing near the school. Why would you ask?” they replied. Even Richard, his younger brother, who had been 12, had stared at him in that oddly shrewd manner unfitting to a child of his age. Connor did do his research later, and found that sure enough, there never was a crematorium at the place he thought it would be. How then did it feel so familiar? Where had his memory conjured the building? Is familiarity something that could be sought for, if his memory was that unreliable? 

Familiarity was the wrong word then. He couldn’t have chosen to stay in the city for something so ephemeral. Connor wracked his brain for other words as he would when trying to name a concept. Insight, understanding, experience, awareness. None of them sounded right.

He looked upwards at the criss-crossing ceiling beams and let out a whoosh of air. He wasn’t arriving at answers any time soon, but strangely enough he didn’t mind as much as he thought. Hank had been a welcome addition to his routine, that’s all. Whatever instance of connection between them was still somewhat of a mystery. A chance encounter that had somehow become part of a routine.

Speaking of which, Connor was surprised that Hank hadn’t showed up yet. He sat up and looked around. The sturdy engineer was nowhere to be seen. The man on the phone had stopped talking. There was a child’s voice calling for his father.

“Fancy seeing you outside of your usual seat, Connor.”

He spun around, only to see Hank, again looking somewhat disheveled, one hand firmly clutching Sumo’s leash. The other gripped the hand of a small boy with round blue eyes and a headful of light blond hair. The child hugged a toy boat close to his chest.

“Oh, hello again, Hank!” Connor immediately stood up, his own burst of elation startling even him.

“Today you get to see me juggle my unruly dog and my bored kid at the same time. It’s gonna be a real shitshow.”

“Um… should you—in front of your son…”

“Oh fuck—No, bummer! My work vocab needs work.” Hank coughed and tried to cover Cole’s ears, but ended up tangling himself in Sumos’ leash.

“Dad! I wanna put my boat in the water!” Cole exclaimed as he began to drag his father along.

“Wait for me, Cole. I’m gonna get lunch ready. Then you can—”

Connor found himself moving towards Hank, his hands reaching to untangle the leash from his arm. His fingers brushed against Hank’s for the briefest second. The other man gave an imperceptible flinch.

“Looks like you can use an extra pair of hands today. I’ll hold onto Sumo so you can get settled with Cole.”

Hank averted his gaze again and muttered an affirmative. Connor to retrieve his belongings, for Hank to sit down and unpack his lunch and Cole’s and for him to retrieve his son (who had run ahead to deposit his boat into the fountain). Connor led Sumo over and knelt, giving the St. Bernard scratches on the sides of his head.

“Who’s a good dog? Is that you, Sumo? It’s you, isn’t it.” He cooed.

“Yes, keep him distracted,” Hank sighed, “I’d appreciate the—Have you eaten yet?”

“I have. You can take your time.”

Hank spent a total of fifteen minutes unpacking his and Cole’s lunch and trying to convince his son to pause his enactment of a naval battle at the fountain. He never raised his voice, even when the boy stamped his feet in protest, but weariness crept into his eyes. When they finally came back to the bench, Connor handed over Sumo’s leash and prepared to leave after wishing them a good meal.

“I haven’t introduced you yet,” Hank said instead, “Cole, this is Mr. Arkait. He’s a friend. Now tell him how old you are and what you’re doing in school.”

Connor’s heartbeat skipped a beat upon hearing Hank refer to him as such.

“I’m nine years old. This is the USS Iowa.” Cole brandished his boat, “Have you been on a warship before, Mr. Arkait?”

“Uh… well, Cole—”

“I’m sorry, he’s deep in his war vehicle fascination at the moment. Cole, tell Mr. Arkait about what you did in English class yesterday.”

“Anyone can spell ‘stupendous’, Dad! Irena from Misses Gladwish’s class can do it too!”

“That’s very impressive, Cole,” Connor felt a smile creeping onto his face, “Adults frequently spell ‘stupendous’ wrong. I can name a few.”

“Have you been on a warship before, Mr. Arkait?” Cole began to bounce as he repeated his question, “I’ve been on USS New Jersey and Texas!”

“I suppose… the Intrepid Air and Space Museum counts? That’s the aircraft carrier Intrepid for you.”

“Alright, time to eat,” Hank shoved a sandwich into the boy’s mouth just as he opened it, no doubt to release a deluge of questions, “You can ask Mr. Arkait about the Intrepid once you’re done with your food, okay? And don’t leave the tomatoes behind.”

“Mmmmfffk.” Cole’s affirmation was muffled.

Connor watched with rapt fascination as Hank fussed over his son, gently removing the toy boat from his grasp, handing him a Capri Sun with a straw ready, and depositing a pile of napkins into his lap, all the while making sure Sumo also had his water bowl. He was beginning to understand why the harassed energy was there.

“You are… very hands-on with him. I have yet to encounter a father who is as… what’s the word? Unrelenting?”

“And?” Hank raised an eyebrow, but his eyes glinted with amused surprise, “Got an opinion on how I should be parenting my son?”

“You’re stricter on him than my mother ever was, Hank.”

“You make it sound like that’s a bad thing, Connor. Got any kids?”

“Uh… no—”

“Come back once you’ve tried to drag your resisting kid outta bed for school at the crack of dawn while decaffeinated and getting him to tie his shoes properly while a 200 pound St. Bernard makes it a life mission to knock over every single item in the house.”

“... Sounds like a regular day at the Anderson household,” Connor realized, “Are you—”

“Doing the work of two? Yeah, didn’t have much of a choice. I’m not your typical divorced father.” Hank closed his eyes.

The separation happened a month ago. His wife signed the papers and agreed to joint custody in caring for Cole. But she disappeared after that despite all attempts to get in contact with her. Hank could have gotten the court involved, but at that point he was too weary to argue any further. To the West Coast it was, a new start at an unfamiliar city with no memories to obsess over.

“You’ve really decided to travel far,” Connor said, “Do you think it worked?”

By now Cole had finished his sandwich and had lost interest in asking about the Intrepid. He made his way back to the fountain under his father’s watchful eye. 

“Worked?” Hank asked, looking at the upper windows.

“Coming here to forget.”

“I wouldn’t call it forgetting. Ain’t much of that happening.”

“You asked if you brought Detroit with you the last time we spoke. I was wondering what you meant by that.”

Hank gave him a strange sidelong glance, “Jesus, Connor. Aren’t you supposed to say ‘I’m sorry that happened’ and I say ‘Whatever it’s in the past’ and we never talk about personal matters again?”

Connor felt his cheeks burn as he realized that he had given in to his curiosity. He hadn’t meant to pry. But the way Hank had phrased that thought had struck a chord within him. He fumbled for an apology frantically.

“I-I didn’t mean to—Assume that I haven’t said anything…”

“I… can’t exactly complain,” Hank’s voice suddenly turned contemplative, “Most people ain’t interested enough to ask anyways.”

He fell silent and twisted Sumo’s leash in his hands. The St. Bernard had been docile for quite a while, looking forlornly at his food bowl and flicking his ears at Cole’s shrill exclamations at the fountain. Hank turned to meet Connor’s eyes with a probing light in them, mixed with no small amount of surprise.

“Didn’t expect it from you. Day in and day out it’s always you alone in that seat. Never seen you talk to anyone else. My people-judging skills clearly need work.”

Connor stared at the older man as he took in the meaning of his words, “That is a bold statement to make. We’ve only started talking a few days ago.”

“You’re too young to be talking about cutting ties and shit with an old engineer a couple years away from retirement. Why’re you doing this?”

Like before when Hank knew he was the one who returned the keycard, Connor felt an intense wave of apprehension wash over him. Why though? What was there to fear? It was too easy to disappear whenever he wanted. All he had to do was stop showing up around the atrium. Hank wouldn’t come after him, and neither did Connor leave behind any means for contact.

“I thought you said that personal matters are off limits, Hank,” Connor said, “You wouldn’t know—”

The realization dawned on him later than he preferred for comfort once again. The other man hadn’t just known Connor had been watching him.

_Hank had been doing the same to him, perhaps longer than he realized._

Connor wanted to laugh out loud at the ridiculousness of it all, “To what do I owe the pleasure of having you surveil me, Hank Anderson?”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Hank retorted, but he looked away and twisted the leash with increased vigor, “You asking me to _not_ notice someone who always sits in that one corner with a face blanker than any android and downing enough coffee to drown an elephant.”

“That’s a Seattle staple, Hank. I thought you knew that already if you’ve already learned how to use the compost bins.” Connor parried, surprising himself with the urge to argue back.

“Well, I fucking don’t…” Hank started to reply, but a glint of triumph entered his eyes, “Sounds like someone has also been doing some observations.”

“You have a 200 pound dog, Hank.”

“So do about five other people in this building, Connor.”

“That can’t be true. I have worked here for nine years, and I know for a fact that you are the only St. Bernard owner I’ve seen for the past three weeks.”

Hank rubbed the bridge of his nose and gave him a scathing look, “Fucking hell, you don’t have to call me out like that. Won’t surprise me if you have an actual dog owner list—”

“Dad! Can you fix my boat?” Cole came running back. The boy shoved his toy and a piece of broken-off plastic into Hank’s lap.

Hank sighed. A short lecture on being more careful with belongings followed, before he actually produced a small tube of glue from his pocket and set to work. Cole plopped down against Sumo, where his small form became buried in fur.

The image struck Connor as profoundly comfortable. Somehow it seemed fitting, watching the older man pull out a variety of items and fussing over someone else. Connor thought back to all the times he watched Hank tend to Sumo, measuring out the St. Bernard’s bowl portion with a furrowed brow and using a brush to carefully untangle some matted fur. In another possibility he might have remained an onlooker. Somehow that was no longer the case.

“Don’t stare. This is how I use my engineering degree outside of work.” Hank pointed out.

“Of course. Your son is fortunate to have a father such as you.”

“Fortunate…. Huh. Is he really, when I had no idea whether moving here was the right move? Cole’s in second grade this year. I yanked him away from—from everything he knew. Hell, I’m turning fifty this year. Too old to hop across states at a whim. What’s wrong with staying in Detroit? Housing’s pretty affordable on the west side. Could’ve just moved within five miles of where I was, I suppose. What’s wrong with familiarity? It’s not like there’s no other choice…”

Hank placed the fixed boat on the bench, and firmly reminded Cole that he had ten more minutes at the fountain. This time Sumo joined the boy, snuffling loudly and batting his tail against Cole’s leg. Hank watched them with a wistful expression.

“Familiarity’s such a vague word.” He said.

“Is that why you were curious about the topic of leaving and returning?”

“It’s fucking strange. Why’re we even talking like this? You don’t even work at Vivatex. I see you like five minutes on most days.”

Connor knew that Hank was right. For all the years he’s lived in the city, he never went beyond the courteous platitudes and “How was your weekend?” with work colleagues he barely knew. Why then? What was it about Hank that drew his attention? Why were they not strangers again after the badge returning?

There was only so much a middle-aged engineer fleeing familiarity and a thirty-something project manager tired of it could find in common.

Connor realized that Hank had not looked away from him as he went through his thoughts. His gaze was somewhat evaluative, but kind at the same time. For some reason Connor found himself turning away almost instantly.

“I-I name concepts as a job, but I don’t… even I have trouble describing why you have singled me out as well.”

“Who knows? I’m new to the place. Probably just happy that you’d put up with me.” Hank’s voice took on a dismissive tone. But Connor had heard him do it enough times to know the other was doing it to hide something else.

He had no reply either. There was no need to call Hank out, not when he himself had no idea why out of all the people in the building they chose each other to notice.

In the end Hank set about calling Cole back to get ready to head up. He gathered the lunch items and Sumo’s bowl, his expression strangely passive. To his own surprise, Connor dug at his pocket for a business card, and offered it to the older man.

“H-Here’s my card, if you—just in case if you need it. I may be barely an acquaintance, but that doesn’t mean I’m unwilling to help if you need it while you settle down.”

“......” Hank took the card, studying it in silence, before he spoke so softly that his words were nearly lost in the bubbling of the fountain, “Maybe you’re just a signifier.”

“Signifier? That’s—”

“You have an annoying knack for kicking my overthinking habit into gear,” Hank said, “A two-hour Wikipedia rabbit hole dive into the fucking post structuralist semiotics triangle was the last thing I needed after a long work day. How’d I know your help wouldn’t lead to some shit like looking up Foucault’s grids of speculation theory?”

Connor couldn’t help himself. He laughed, giddy with utter delight that Hank had listened to his panicked rant about semiotics a few days ago and thought it interesting enough to look into.

“You only scratched the surface, Hank,” He said, “Come back and talk to me once you covered the form follows function versus the form follows fiasco debate.”

“No fucking thank you! I’m going back to work!”

Then Hank was off, dog in one hand and son in the other. The three figures wove somewhat haphazardly through a group of suited men passing by. Sumo strained against his leash again. Cole skipped ahead of his father as much as he could, boat still clutched in both hands.

Connor watched them until they disappeared around a corner, a smile still refusing to fade away.

* * *

“Did something happen?”

Amanda’s unexpected question caught Connor off guard. He spent a couple of awkward seconds recollecting his composure before he could answer.

“What are you referring to? Is my work performance due for a review?”

“You have always been eager to leave the city. Asking if you could take a local case instead is unprecedented for you, Connor. Is there anything I need to know?” Amanda asked, her eyes still on her laptop screen. Her fingers tapped at the keys with sharp clicks.

“N-No! There’s nothing wrong. I simply—”

“Hmm, I would not put it that way. You seem… how do I put it… invigorated? Refreshed? I’ve never seen you so energized for an on-site before.”

“Really? You must be mistaken. I always give it my all to work with my client.”

“I worry that you are unable to evaluate yourself as keenly as I had hoped,” Amanda closed her laptop and stood up from her desk, “Did you find someone then?”

“What? N-No, nothing like that!” Connor sputtered.

“Is that so? Strange. I am usually spot-on in discerning such developments in the team. You are certain?”

“I-I am uncomfortable discussing private matters at work, Amanda.”

“Whatever it is, I hope to see it last. I look forward to seeing your performance report this year.”

Connor was still bewildered by this exchange even after he landed in Los Angeles and checked into the Crowne Plaza Harbor Hotel. He’d worked under Amanda for a good five years now and had learned to respect her no-nonsense attitude towards work, even with her utter inability to socialize in the office. But a nosy side to her was new, and somehow more terrifying than his mother had ever been when inquiring after his lack of romantic life.

The sun was already setting when he entered his room, sending gold flecks of light rippling on the waters of the Main Channel. He noticed with pleased amusement that the USS Iowa battleship could be seen docked a couple hundred feet away. A couple of small figures were moving near one of the gun turrets.

Instead of composing an email to his client about the meeting tomorrow, Connor set about snapping a picture of the scenery, only to discover that Hank had sent him a text first. It was short and to the point, reading that it was only fair that he should provide Connor his number too. He sent the photo, along with a reply that he was away from the city and that he shouldn’t be alarmed if he doesn’t see Connor for the entirety of next week.

Connor seated himself next to the window, leaning back into the armchair with a whooshed exhale. He held his phone loosely in his fingers as he glanced at the screen from time to time. It was already half past six. He had no desire to find a bar as he usually did the first night for an on-site meeting. The dimly-lit space with strains of jazz melodies, the muffled conversations, the clink of glass, and the growing haze of inebriation didn’t hold the same appeal as before. He knew that there was no purpose to it. He didn’t even frequent bars when he was in Seattle.

Los Angeles was different beyond words. Connor had two on-sites in the city before, though never long enough to get a feel of the place. It was just another location, where he once might have anticipated the possibility of an exciting new start, at least before the sense of _awayness_ set in again.

He wondered what Hank was doing at the moment, and what it would be like to talk with the older engineer here, in Los Angeles overlooking the river, Cole bouncing in excitement over the battleship, Sumo running in circles around them and trying to knock someone over.

_Maybe you’re just a signifier._

He couldn’t get Hank’s sudden comment out of his head. A signifier. A word referring to what makes up a word itself, namely the arrangement of letters. A tree was the four letters of “t” “r” “e” “e”. But the image and meaning it invokes in an individual’s mind, the signified, differs from person to person. One might think of a mulberry tree that grew in the backyard of a childhood home. Another might see a divine entity worthy of worship. It was always so difficult to work around this disconnect between the signifier and its meaning when Connor was defining terms in his job. In the end he felt like the meaning, the signified, always grew too big for its collection of letters. The signifier was gone. He was lost in trying to fit a single definition to a single word.

Him, a signifier?

Is that why Connor felt so misplaced all those years? Wanting to chance upon a meaning on where he was, is and will be, and wondering why he was stuck in place? He was neither dispirited or content. He just _was,_ an employee at Inertia, once a recent grad looking forward to leaving the city, secretly envying that his younger brother had it together more than he ever managed, listening in on conversations and pretending that he understood them.

Noticing Hank out of all people, and somehow being so curious about what he represented. A thoughtful but mystifying man who had noticed him out of all people as well. Who listened to Connor’s half-panicked rambling and was strangely preoccupied with Connor’s pitiful attempts to describe what was and wasn’t familiar.

… _just a signifier._

Spoken so softly as if an afterthought. But Connor wasn’t a collection of symbols that contained various meanings for those who saw them. Why would Hank even—

No, he was overinterpreting it. There were many ways to see what the engineer had meant, like… like… 

He suddenly felt lightheaded. Try as Connor might, he couldn’t see the comment beyond an extremely roundabout way for Hank to admit that Connor was more than a casual acquaintance he met a couple times a week.

Connor stood, shuddering with a sharp sense of exhilaration that he hadn’t felt for years. Finding meaning not in a collection of symbols, but a person. No logical explanation as to why Hank would do it or how. It simply just _is_ , at least for Hank _._

His mind went to work as it usually did when faced with defining a new term, looking at contexts, at usage, at audience comprehension, at alignment. The process had always been a puzzle that Connor had varying degrees of success in solving, but this time he was all too glad to see how much of Hank he could understand.

* * *

IAC this year was a little less overwhelming than usual. The conference was quite small, with about twenty people milling about in the medium-sized room. Connor had arrived just as they opened the sign-in table, and proceeded to help the staff move in the large bags of pastries and other food items as more people began to file in. Somewhere on the other side, about eight of his coworkers sat chatting, with a nonplussed Amanda going over a sheaf of notes. She was presenting a seminar today.

Perhaps the pressure to attend an event where a supervisor was speaking existed, but Connor wasn’t thinking about that. Even as he lifted a container of coffee into the kitchen, he snuck glances at the entrance. Someone asked if there was decaf. Another helped herself to a pastry, and then to two more surreptitiously. Two were discussing who was judging the hackathon this year and possible strategies.

And then there was a bark, a voice exclaiming something, and the familiar silhouettes of a man, a young boy, and a St. Bernard emerging from the shadows into the room.

About five people immediately dashed over and cooed over Sumo, burying their hands in his long fur. Hank looked resigned, but allowed the gushing as he extended the leash. His eyes swept the room. Upon meeting them, Connor put down the container and weaved his way towards the older engineer.

“There you are. Not the easiest place to find.” Hank said gruffly, “Was expecting an actual conference center, not an office floor.”

“You brought the whole crew?”

“Hey, it’s a fucking Saturday, and you’re the one who invited me.”

“You didn’t have to actually take me up on it. This is a conference for information architecture, and I bet you’re the only non-practitioner.”

“Didn’t exactly have other plans,” Hank shifted his shoulder bag, again looking at anything but Connor, “Look, you’re the one who suggested getting involved in events in the city. You gonna regret having me around or what?”

Again with the dismissive behavior. For a second Connor was tempted to let it slide like he usually did. But not this time. This time he knew he wanted to make sense of it.

“I’m glad you’re here, Hank.”

Hank’s eyes widened as an expression of bewilderment flashed across his face. The moment lasted but a second, before Connor was tackled by the 200-pound of fur that was Sumo. He laughed and gave the St. Bernard a hearty squeeze. 

“Mr. Connor, can I get a muffin?!” Cole shrilled.

“Wash your hands first, Cole—” Hank began to say.

“I already did before leaving the house!”

“And who knows how many fuc— freaking things you’ve touched since then!”

“You never tell Sumo to wash his paws before eating!”

“He’s a dog! I have higher standards for you dammi—”

“Then I’ll make sure Sumo washes his paws if you do, okay?” Connor promised.

Hank snorted.

“Then hold this for me. And this!” Cole piled his small backpack and toy boat into his father’s arms before running off into the kitchen.

It took quite a while for the washing up to be done. But Hank looked much more at ease than before when the three of them sat down at a table. It was ten minutes until the conference would start. People were starting to settle down as the first presenter worked at setting up their laptop and projector.

“How was your trip to LA?” Hank asked.

It was uneventful. Connor met with the client for the week and worked to come up with a new strategy to organize their company intranet content. This usually lasted for about 7-8 hours each day. The rest he used to explore his surroundings a little, including actually visiting the USS Iowa and touring the museum.

“Cole wouldn’t shut up about it for a week,” Hank groaned, “But I didn’t take you to be a naval enthusiast.”

“You don’t know that, Hank. There’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

The engineer raised an eyebrow.

“The time spent observing someone without their noticing doesn’t count, good sir.” Connor said.

“I can say the fucking same about you.”

Connor sighed, “Hopefully we’re past that already. I’m glad to be back.”

“So which is it? You glad to be back in a familiar place or happy that you got to leave it?”

Somehow Hank, even just knowing Connor for a couple weeks, was able to ask the question that he himself had struggled to voice directly. Hank, who was also overly fascinated about what could be called familiar and what could be called strange, who saw Connor as the signifier for his own uncertainty.

“Is that what you wanted to ask for yourself as well? Maybe I’m just a signifier, right?” Connor gave the other a wry smile.

“What the—Oh, _that._ Forget it. Just some nonsense. Don’t ask me to explain my ramblings.”

Connor knew it wasn’t, and he suspected that Hank knew that as well, “Then to answer your question, I cannot say for sure. You’re asking me to choose one of the two, but the idea you’re getting at may exceed the word “glad”. Is it as simple that I was “glad” to have a break from my work routine in Seattle, or that I was “happy” to be away?”

“Jesus, I was just asking a simple question.”

“But I am happy that you’ve given me a lot to think of, Hank.”

Hank was silent at that. His shaggy gray hair hid his eyes, but for a split second the corners of his mouth lifted.

“... Can say the same for you.” His voice was quiet, “I’ve had a better time than I thought adjusting, thanks to your help.”

Connor couldn’t help but smile in return. Perhaps he still couldn’t completely understand why they ended up noticing each other as much as they did, but he knew he looked forward to seeing how Hank fit into all this. 

“I didn’t do that much yet. If you want, do you want to join me for lunch? I recommend Tsukushinbo. It’s a popular ramen place.”

“Ramen? What’s that?” Cole piped up as he stopped doodling in his notebook, “Dad, can we eat out today? Please please please?"

Hank reached over to ruffle his son’s hair, and turned to Connor, his eyes soft, “Hell, why not?”


End file.
